The Power of a Star
by Gitana del Sol
Summary: Written for the Quidditch League Competition, season 1, second round of the Finals, in which the star he revolves around explodes. Warning: not explicit but definitely high T. Score: 9.5/10


**For this round, Beaters had to write a story about a character of the other Beater's choosing without using that character's name. Here, I was told to write about one character but wrote it from the perspective of another. To avoid making identifying the chosen character really easy, I refrained from using either of their names.**

**I chose three prompts: **rush, supernova, "To get the full value of joy you must have someone to divide it with"

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><p>Several articles in the <em>Prophet<em> had recently taken to analyzing what traits made up Death Eaters, and he had taken to reading them for early morning amusement. On several occasions he had been surprised to find positive traits such as "resourceful", "cunning", and "determined" amongst more common descriptions like "impulsive", "unyielding", "irresponsible". Over a steaming mug of coffee and still half-drowsy from sleep, he hardly ever took offense to the liberal's jaded point of view. Quite the opposite, he often took great pleasure in reading what the brash liberals had to say on something they never understood to begin with. They were like unruly children in need of a firm scolding.

But one particular article caught his eye, titled, "Beside Every King is a Queen". The author was a young liberal witch, probably a new journalist testing out her wings with controversial writing. She was voicing her speculations for the second-in-command, the star Death Eater, the right-hand man. But the hand, she wrote, was not a "he" but a "she"! She then continued to describe this character, and he was concerned with how close the author got to the truth: "ruthless and dominating, she probably met her life of luxury and riches with frustration, as the old traditional ways expected her to stay home and bow her head. How giddy she must be to unfurl her whip and let her wand and tongue fall upon those who bar her path!"

How could someone just guess these truths simply from circumstantial evidence? Surely only someone with inside information – a mole or a traitor – could come to such an accurate conclusion! His eyes dropped to the bottom of the article, adding the name to memory and making a note to pay her a visit. But then his attention was caught by the last sentence, and he felt himself relax.

"Three words to sum up the rising queen? Cold, callous, and calculating."

He almost smiled, for whatever his wife was, she was not cold, callous, or calculating. Quite the contrary, in fact, for he knew, quite intimately, that she was fiery and passionate, letting her anger drive her wand. Her ruthless behaviour came from her tendency to jump into the fray after just a moment's notice rather than come up with alternatives. She was blazing heat, not introverted cold.

Especially at night; when the sun went down, she shined brighter than any star.

She was seductive, expectant, and demanding. She would be eager, wrapping deft fingers around his neck, nails outlining the base of his hair. He would fight her initially, of course, because that was what she wanted and, quite frankly, it heated things up in a way that pleased him, too. He would lead her around the house, pushing her up against some wall to run his fingers up her blouse or leaned back against an arm chair to discard the lacy skirt. But once they reached the bedroom, he was all hers. He was a bit of rock revolving around her fiery brilliance.

She would made quick work of him, of course, just to hear him beg. She was power-hungry; she fed on it like a vampire feeds on the blood of maidens. With every moan from his lips, she would grow bigger and brighter. She lathered him with heat, resorting to all sorts of trickery be it with tongue, hand, fingernails, or breasts. His skin would swell with her marks; her ego would swell with his vulnerability. He got one chance – one chance – to take advantage of that moment when she would throw her head back, ebony curls licking the tops of his thighs like black fire, to flip her under him and take the lead.

Yet it would not be domination so much as reverent adoration. Pale skin glowing, thick lids glazing over dark eyes, she would press him to her in a frantic need. He would watch her eyes and try to guess when so much energy was too much, even for her. Over the years, he became good at this – _real _good.

Then she would explode, just as he knew she would, in a hot burst of cries and kisses and curling fingers. He would feel her thighs tightening around his hips, feet sliding down the insides of his legs. He would groan, feeling his own climax mounting, knowing that if he didn't do it soon, he would be left to his own devices; once done, she was loathe to waste time waiting for him to catch up. His undoing would come as it always did: a downward rush, spiraling out of control. One, two, three, and then he would not have the strength to stop it even if he wanted to. His pleasure always came on the curtails of her satisfaction, and always just as passionate and fiery as the force that caused it. He was an asteroid blown off orbit by this powerful supernova.

She would allow him to nuzzle her neck for a while, placing sweet little kisses on her collar. These were the tender moments, the seconds that it took her to bask in her own release before pulling herself into the strong, noblewoman she claimed to be. But eventually she will tire of that and, shoving him aside, she would get up to wash. She won't ever stay still for very long; she was new star now, burning with new energy and off in search for new experiences, new thrills. He would stay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, waiting for the last wave of pleasure to ebb away before getting up himself.

But it's just physical satisfaction, not emotional pleasure. True pleasure – the kind that starts in your gut and spills out onto your face, the kind that makes you feel alive and giddy – could never be reached between them. That sort of radiance only came when two people were emotionally connected, when they cared, when the other's happiness meant as much, if not more, than one's own. Joy had to be shared.

But she never shares.

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><p><strong>Ready for the character reveal?<strong>

** oOo**

**OoO**

**oOo**

**Bellatrix Lestrange**


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